I Dub Thee Artist
by The Paisley Pajamas
Summary: When Sirius colors himself, he finds his palette completely unsatisfactory. But James sets him right.


**Disclaimer**: Yes, they are all mine. :is sued for a ridiculous sum of money: There, proof that I was lying, right? I don't own them!

**Note**: This has to be the longest piece I have ever written for the HP fandom. Hah. It's just over a thousand words. I fail at life.

Er. Slight JP/SB? Very slight. Nearly nonexistent. Unless you're a fangirl, because then everything automatically morphs into wild, gay sex on the Common Room floor. Admit it.

But yeah. Nothing to that degree. (But they're totally doing it off-screen.)

* * *

**I Dub Thee Artist**

Sirius absolutely despises white. It is the only color he cannot be.

He can be black (it is a given, after all); elegant, sophisticated, enigmatic. He is all straight lines that overrun the cross-outs and mistakes, and there are so many mistakes beneath the cool, arrogant facade he puts up when confronted. It has been beaten into him since birth, and not even outright defiance can unravel the ties that bind him to a world the color of his name. He has so many secrets that sometimes he finds things that surprise even him.

He can be red; angry, passionate, violent. His temper is lost more often than Peter's Ancient Runes homework. He can be irrational and unreasonable, and he has a childish tendency to tear up when frustrated. When he is like this, his smiles are as dangerous as the hexes he sends your way.

He can be blue (the color of his blood); melancholy and depressed. It is not rare to find him staring silently out the window on a sunny late-June day. He does not talk when he is in this mood, and everyone (save for perhaps meddling James Potter) knows to leave him alone to pull himself out of it.

He can be green; energetic and lively. People like this side of him best, because it is impossible to feel down when he is running through the halls singing Muggle rock songs at the top of his lungs. Not even the Slytherins can ignore him when he is like this, full to the brim with infectious vivacity. (He can be envious as well, but he never admits it.)

He can even be yellow; calm, content, relaxed. He is seldom in this medium between extremes, but his friends unanimously agree that a serene Sirius, though worryingly uncharacteristic, is much less difficult to deal with. (However, there are times when his tranquility explodes without warning, and the entire Gryffindor House has learned to duck and cover to avoid the fallout.)

He can be every color but white. The logic is simple. White is purity and when has that ever applied to him? It would not bother him so much if it didn't make him feel inferior (unworthy) in some way.

His friends are pure, though. James with his endearing optimism, his short-sighted and stubborn morality; Remus with his strangely feral innocence, his kindness and infinite patience; Peter with his undying ability to be awed by even the simplest things, his willingness and trusting nature.

Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew.

Black.

His palette is maelstrom of color. It is not an artful mess like James's, nor carefully organized like Remus's, nor simple and light like Peter's. It is merely colors merging with other colors, often clashing, never coordinated, and ridiculous to even consider trying to discern the individual hues.

Armed with his analogies, he talks to James about this one day, because he tells James almost everything (but not really).

"Does it really bother you that much?"

"Yeah, it does actually."

James blinks at him from behind absurdly high prescription glasses. "You know what you are?"

Sirius sighs. "Please, do enlighten me."

"An artist."

"What?"

"An artist. I dub thee artist, Padfoot."

"Oh." He considers this. "I don't get it."

"Why else would you be so concerned with colors?"

"You know, James, you completely fail to address the topic at hand."

"No, I don't. I'm getting to it." He leans back. "You see, all artists are a bit insane by definition. You're batshit crazy, mate, so there's no doubt you'd be an excellent artist."

"I think you're forgetting the fact that I can't draw straight lines to save my life and that geometric shapes by my hand are anything but geometric."

"Shut up, I'm trying to make a point here. Besides, who says you have to draw? You can be a poet or something. A musician."

Sirius slumps down in his chair. "You mentioned a point. What is it?"

"What I'm trying to say is that anyone who can come up with _and_ express stuff like that—paintings, poems, music—has to be pure on some level. You following?"

"Not at all. And why can't they be evil? Someone who draws or writes or composes music about pain and suffering and hellfire and the Apocalypse and people stealing cookies from the cookie jar and—"

"Because I said so!"

"That's really not fair, James."

"I don't care. Will you listen to me? Purity isn't just virtue and wholesomeness, Sirius."

"Actually, according to many renowned lexicographers, both Muggle and wizarding, it is precisely that."

"Stop talking. You're not allowed to talk anymore, understand?"

Sirius makes a petulant noise.

"Look. An artist sees things differently than everyone else. They can find splendor in the mundane; ordinary things become extraordinary. Extravagance is their trademark! You can't see things like that if you're totally corrupted. On the other hand, one can't possibly create anything with only white to work with, you know? You need other colors too.

But you _do_ have white on your palette, Sirius. It's just harder to see because it blends so seamlessly with all your other colors. It takes on a different form. There's purity behind everything you do; it's the raw, driving force that compels you to act like the Padfoot I know. You run on sheer emotion and instinct. You're a jumble of—of colors. Lots and lots of colors. And stuff."

Sirius takes a minute to wonder what in the world he has done to deserve a friend like James.

"Hello? Padfoot?"

"What? Oh. Yeah."

"Were you even paying attention to me?"

"Of course I was. Really." He rests his head on his hands. "Thanks, Prongs."

"Sure." James smiles, accomplished. "Besides, you're a work of art yourself."

"What?" Sirius starts to grin.

"Er—no. I mean, that's what the girls say, anyway. The girls. Uhm."

"James Potter thinks I'm beautiful!" he croons for the world to hear.

"Oh, shut up. Go put a paper bag over your face; I can't stand to look at you anymore."

He is an artist and he will paint the world exactly as James wants it.


End file.
